


Simple Instructions

by CaveFelem



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dom/sub, Exhibitionism, F/M, Hair-pulling, Humiliation, Knifeplay, POV Female Character, Promiscuity, Rough Sex, Skyrim Kink Meme, Spanking, Stripping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 15:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveFelem/pseuds/CaveFelem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Skyrim Kink Meme prompt requesting a female Dragonborn who's been with many nice guys and found each one a disappointment... until along comes a definitely not nice Mercer Frey. OP specifically requested rough sex with hair-pulling, spanking, humiliation, etc. I liked the chance to write a story where a sexually submissive female character is craving it badly, isn't a victim, and doesn't turn the tables on the Dominant in the last paragraph.</p>
<p>Warnings: Well, this is consensual rough sex, basically. Also see tags.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Simple Instructions

So far, Laverna thought as her fingers worked oil into the leather of her water-damaged guild armor, Skyrim had been a series of disasters big and small. It had started with nearly having her head chopped off because she'd chosen the wrong place to cross the border from Cyrodiil, then continued with a dragon attacking, then narrowly escaping entanglement with some sort of civil war business; and that had been only the first day.

Swallowing bucketfuls of Lake Honrich while swimming for her life from the Goldenglow estate had been smaller on the scale of disasters, but unpleasant nonetheless.

To think that she'd had such high hopes for the harsh, rugged province.

The men here, for one thing, hadn't been as harsh and rugged as she'd secretly hoped. That young Nord from Riverwood, Sven something – did he even have a last name? – had been kind and eager in the manner of a clumsy puppy. He had also been inordinately distressed when none of his techniques seemed to bring results, and then afterwards, had burst into tears because he _really_ loved Camilla the shopkeeper's sister and he didn't know what had come over him, and would Laverna please forgive him and never speak of this again? Especially to Camilla?

She had agreed, as the quickest way to get him out of her hair. Then she had sworn off men for the umpteenth time, because they were all made of the same soft stuff in the end.

”Laverna?” Brynjolf's voice interrupted her musings. ”Mercer wants to talk to you. Right now.”

Mercer. The name was a hot dagger stab in her belly, and in its wake came a flush she could feel rising on her face. Now that man was more a saber cat than a puppy. She'd only stood in front of him once, he'd done nothing but speak, and yet... His existence had been a constant, underlying, nagging ache inside her ever since, non-stop for the two days it took her to make her plans, do her groundwork and get in and out of Goldenglow.

The rational part of her mind kept whispering her she was being a fool. The other parts, mental and especially physical, kept shouting it down. The fact of the matter was that her love life so far had been much like Skyrim – a series of disasters – and her only satisfying bedmates had been her own hands and fever-hot fantasies of dark, snarling, rough men throwing her down and fucking her raw.

From the moment her eyes had met the guildmaster's, she'd been fearing and hoping and dreading and praying to Dibella that he would be such a man.

”You better hurry, lass.” Brynjolf's brow had furrowed. ”Maven Black-Briar was here earlier, and whatever she said didn't make Mercer any happier.”

”I completed the job, didn't I?” She attempted a shrug, as if it had been all the same to her. ”Alright, alright. The armor can wait.”

Maybe she'd put a bit too much effort into the nonchalant act. Brynjolf raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. She could feel his gaze following her as she corked the oil bottle, wiped her hands and felt at her cheeks, quickly, hoping they weren't still blazing.

If Dibella, or whichever darker power governed lusts like hers, had heard her prayers, what then?

*

When she stood in front of Mercer Frey for the second time, separated only by the width of a desk, it became clear very quickly that she had not made the client happy. And when the client was not happy, Mercer was not happy, at least when the client was Maven. If he had seemed grim before, now he had all the warmth of an ice floe.

”Simple instructions – burn three beehives, no more and no less – and you can't even follow those. Can you count to three, Laverna?”

He held up three fingers in front of her face, ink and dust and charcoal-stained fingers, and all she could think of was where she wanted them.

”Yes, I can”, she said defensively, trying to focus on the ledger, the inkpot, anything not-him. ”It was windy, and the flames, uh, maybe they got a bit too high...”

”When I ask you a question”, he interrupted her without as much as a hint of smoothness, ”I expect an answer. Not excuses.”

He muttered something under his breath, and she could almost, almost read it on his lips.

”What?” slipped from her before she could question the wisdom of opening her mouth again.

”I said you might be in the wrong line of work.” His look cut right into her, splitting her defenses apart. ”Said as much to Brynjolf, but he insisted on bringing you in.”

He leaned forward on the desk, and the closeness became tangible between them. It raked along her nerves, like invisible fingernails, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

”Though even plying your trade at Haelga's Bunkhouse, I imagine you've got to follow instructions.”

”What are you trying to – I'm not a whore!” she snapped at him, anger temporarily quelling the insistent pulse of desire inside her.

”No? Pity. I might have availed myself of your services.”

Before she had time for further protests, her chin was cupped in his palm, forced up, and the fingertips pressed into her cheek, taking the measure of the bone structure underneath. His thumb brushed across her lips, and she hated herself for her mouth opening and letting out a whimpery sound that she had no memory of ever making before.

It caused Mercer to break into a wry almost-smirk, as if she had been a puzzle lock that he had just figured out.

”Well, well”, he said. ”I'll take that back. You're already offering your services for free.”

The hand slid further up into her hair, grasped it hard, and her scalp sang with pain.

”Aren't you?”

He was taunting her with his assumption, daring her to say no and close this particular door for good.

She had never been so turned on in her entire life.

”I guess... you could say that”, she ground out, her voice tight and tense. If he didn't let go of her hair soon, she feared he would have a souvenir.

”Is that so.”

It wasn't a question. The grip in her hair loosened just a fraction, and she breathed out shakily.

”Then maybe I'll give you another chance to prove yourself.”

*

”First”, he said, ”we're going to see if you really can do as you're told.”

From the way her scalp felt on fire, Laverna was half expecting to see loose strands twined around the fingers that withdrew from her hair. There were none. She felt at her head instinctively in any case.

”Vain about your hair, are you?”

Mercer had walked around the desk and was now a solid wall of armed and armored man behind her. She could smell leather, damp firewood and fermented honey on him. That signature scent of the Cistern had started to stick to her as well; but he was steeped in it, as if to remind her senses whose place here was certain and whose was not.

”Let's hope you're not as vain about your clothes. Stay still.”

The _shing_ of a dagger being unsheathed made her blood run hot and cold, and then hot again when Mercer brought the blade up to her field of vision. She flinched.

”Stay _still_ ”, he repeated, a low growl which made her spine feel soft as hot wax. By that point, though, it had become an unnecessary order: he had wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, and she could not have been held more firmly in a vise. Extracting herself would have taken a considerable amount of struggling, and she was not suicidal enough to do that with a naked blade against her body. He was working the tip of it under the laces of her plain, simple bodice, and all she could do was watch as the bright steel pulled the first crisscross taut, snapped it neatly, then tugged the rest out. The bodice fell open to hang uselessly between her back and his chest.

The dagger slid back into its sheath. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

”You will continue to be still”, he said in an even tone, matter-of-factly, ”until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”

Forming just one single syllable in her mind and voicing it had somehow become as difficult as speaking Ayleid. Everything that was simultaneously wrong and _so right_ about the situation was concentrated in it, that simple acknowledgment of obedience.

”Yes.”

”Good.”

His arm moved away, palms slid down her shoulders and sides and hips, getting a feel of her feminine shape. It was almost painful not to move under the touch. His right hand reached the top of the side-slit of her dress, high up on her thigh, possibly too high for decency –

– and grasped, bunched and tore. Thread and fabric gave way up to her waist, leaving the dress in two sorry shreds on the right side.

Laverna swayed slightly on her feet, seeking to regain balance. The cool draft from one of the doorways slithered under the dress and raised the tiny hairs on her skin.

She remained still, an easy target for his next move.

There was movement in the shadows, further away to Laverna's left. She turned her head just a fraction, her eyes a fraction more, and to her horror, saw Thrynn in the process of putting a pair of boots on. Just how long had he been there? Had he seen and heard everything?

”What's the matter?” Mercer must have felt her tense. ”Oh, him. Think anybody here cares? They've seen and heard everything you can imagine and then some.”

His breath brushed the nape of her neck.

”Should I be greedy, I wonder, or invite him to watch? Would that excite you? I bet it would. Yes, you'll squirm and deny it, I'm sure. But I know your sort. You need to be brought low and held there with a firm hand.”

She shook her head, mouthed silent protests, because things like that were too dark and secret to say aloud, and yet he had done so, as if it was nothing.

Mercer palmed the slight curve of her stomach under the shredded dress, and her silent protest turned into an audible moan. She'd simply thrown the nearest dry thing on when she had shed her soaked armor. This meant no smallclothes underneath, which would now be all too evident, if it had not been already.

”Smart of you to be prepared.” The verbal jab was accentuated with a shift of his hips against her, and a new flush of heat went through her, because he was all hard and not bothering to hide the fact. ”Saves me some trouble. Thrynn”, he raised his voice across the Cistern, ”here's something for you to lose sleep over: our new recruit wears less under her clothing than you might think.”

Torn between lust and humiliation and outrage, Laverna closed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge the other man's presence or see his reaction. She bunched her fists, desperate for something, anything except this being still business. But... she had to prove she could obey orders. And if she did not, the moment would shatter and he would stop, and she might never, ever have anything like this again.

She had to endure... had to be worthy... and hope this would go on and on and end like the nightly stories in her head.

”You can move now”, he said at the precise moment he slipped his hand between her thighs. It was skillful and invasive and not at all gentle, and she arched up into the touch, crying out hoarsely.

”Gods! It's wet as Hjaalmarch in here”, he groaned in the low note of of his own need while his fingers dipped inside her and made her writhe and whimper. ”You're making this too easy.” 

The fingers withdrew all too soon, leaving her empty and ready to cry out in misery. Mercer, though, did not seem like he was done with her. Instead, he strode back to his desk. He swept aside rolls of paper, quills, and a candleholder with a thankfully unlit candle, sending them scattering all over the floor. Then, with a firm hand on the back of her neck, he led Laverna to the desk and pushed down until she was unceremoniously bent over it like any common kitchen girl in a tavern cellar.

She ended up with her face almost pressed into the ledger, so closely that the upside down writing turned into a blur in her eyes. Then she had to grasp the edge of the desk for support, because Mercer's boot had wedged itself between her bare legs and was insistently pushing her feet apart.

”Damn this rag”, he muttered behind her, and she felt another pull and heard the dress tear further. The slight chill on her newly bared skin was unmistakable, and her entire body grew hot and heavy when she realized he had bared her to the waist.

”Now this”, he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork, ”this I like. Just as I thought you would be. But I'm usually right about these things.”

For a moment, it was quiet. Too quiet. Laverna was sure she could feel his stare, wanted to writhe and squirm to ease the feel of it, or claw at the desk, beg, anything.

Her frenzied thought flow was cut short by a loud smack.

The sound was what registered first. Sharp, unexpected, it caused her to make a small shriek. Right on its heels came the pain in the round, fleshy body part that had been at the receiving end.

”Y-you... slapped me”, she stammered, surprised.

”That's right. And I'm going to do it again. Why?” Here he paused for another slap, as hard and loud as the first. ”Because it amuses me.”

Yet another slap, which hurt even more than the previous ones on her already tender flesh. She remembered, faintly, one of the men who had courted her back home, giving her a few fumbling pats on the rump. She had not thought much of it, or him, and dismissed the idea. But this... this hurt.

Somehow, inexplicably, it made her even hotter while it did. She felt a wet trickle down her inner thigh and bit her lip to hold back a whimper.

”Not red enough for my taste yet.”

The words were followed by more hard slaps, raining down on her in rapid succession, the raw, stinging pain of each piling on top of the others until it felt like she was on fire from the waist down. It was too much, she couldn't help it, she had to reach back and try to protect herself –

Quick as a fox, Mercer grabbed her wrist and planted her hand back on the desk.

”Your hands stay down”, he said darkly, ”or I'll make them stay down. Your choice.”

”Please.” Her voice didn't sound like her own at all. ”Please, no more. Hurts.”

Through the haze of need and ache, she thought she heard a quiet groan.

”It's supposed to hurt.”

He bent over her, enclosed her between his body and the desk, unyielding hardness on both sides. Swept sweaty hair off the back of her neck. Planted a gruff remark right into her brain and her nerve endings:

”That was the test. Now for the reward.”

Yes. Oh, _yes_. If he meant what she thought he meant... and how could he not, with that voice, which she fancied was raspy with desire, and that quickened breath giving his game away?

It occurred to Laverna, briefly, that it was possible Thrynn was still around. Or someone else. Any Guild member could walk in at any time and see her thrown over the desk, torn and disheveled and spread open like some inconsequential plaything. And they would see – and hear – how every inch of her was burning for it.

But the fact was, she needed it too much to care. So much that she found herself mewling, begging in small nonverbal sounds; and when she heard the shuffle and clink of leather, cloth and opened buckles, she knew it was truly happening, and her hips lifted lewdly, urging him on.

Mercer's palms landed on her backside, and she flinched from the feel of them, the burn of the slaps still fresh in the memory of her skin. Callused thumbs parted her and exposed her core, and wetness welled up both there and in her eyes.

”Please”, she managed to voice, uncaring who heard. ”Please.”

He stilled for a few heartbeats, and she heard him draw a deep breath. Then, fast and decisive, he grasped her hips hard and pulled her into an advantageous angle, and then, in one thrust, buried himself in her to the hilt.

She knew from the hum of blood in her ears and the painfully sweet pressure in the pit of her belly that it would happen this time. She would climax. There was no stopping it. She had though it wasn't even possible, to gain much pleasure from a man filling her up and working in monotonous rhythm until he spilled his seed. She had endured it because she'd hoped, each time (until she'd given up hope), that the magic would happen if she only tried a different man.

A different nice man.

Mercer was not a nice man.

He was dangerous and rough, he'd treated her like she was good for nothing but stripping and ravishing, and he'd thrown her down and was fucking her to the darkest and brightest and maddest Oblivion.

She came undone with a cry, writhing and contracting around the thick organ still relentlessly moving inside her. Her nails scored the surface of the desk, hair clung to her face and got in her mouth and eyes. And it went on and on, wrung every drop of sweat and every scream from her, until she was nothing but an exhausted receptacle for him to use until his own climax.

*

”Turn around. Turn around and look at me.”

She did, slowly and reluctantly. How much easier it would have been to slink away, get washed, get dressed and curl up on her bunk, think of ways to act as if nothing had happened.

Her gaze moved up from his knees to the open breeches, the tool of her undoing which, even softening, made her shudder all over again, the wide chest, the scar-scored chin. Lips twisted into a half-smirk. Finally, eyes that had seen her for what she was, secretly, inside.

”From now on, Laverna”, and how could he speak so evenly so soon after, ”I trust you'll know who's leading and who's following around here. Who gives the instructions, and who does as told.”

There was really only one answer to that.


End file.
